Better Than Sleep
by cactusnell
Summary: Sherlock is once again spending the night at Molly's flat, but this time he's having trouble sleeping. Sherlolly.


Molly Hooper couldn't sleep, and it was rapidly becoming rather worrisome. She was facing a full day at work the following morning, and it wouldn't do to fall asleep there, possibly diving face first into the wide open chest cavity of an unfortunate cadaver. But, every time she would start to doze off, she was jolted awake once again by the shaking and shuddering of her bed as the man on the other side of the mattress twisted and turned. She glanced over in the darkness, thinking to herself that being kept awake by Sherlock Holmes sharing her bed wouldn't be such a bad idea if he ever deigned to do anything other than sleep. And toss and turn. But, if this was as much action as she was going to get, it just wasn't enough!

"Sherlock!"

"Yes, Molly?" the detective asked innocently.

"Stop bouncing around and go to sleep!" Molly said with a groan, "Or get out of my bed!"

"Never thought I'd hear you say that," the man said, almost under his breath, but not quite.

"There's a perfectly good bed in the spare room, you git!"

"No there's not. There's a medieval torture device, possibly stuffed with the skulls and bones of its previous victims, and covered in scratchy sheets to add an extra layer of discomfort! Besides, if I wanted to sleep alone, I'd go to Baker Street!"

Molly rolled her eyes, a futile gesture lost in the darkness of the bedroom. "Go over to John's, then. Perhaps Mary will let you squeeze in between them!"

"Not likely. I'd probably have to dislodge a toddler."

"Sherlock, I have a full day at work coming up. What's the problem? You don't usually have a problem falling asleep, at least once you decide to go to bed?"

"I've got something on my mind. A puzzling question…"

"A case?" Molly's voice brightened. She liked hearing about his cases. "Maybe I can help."

"Not a case, no. But a question you could help with, certainly."

"Well?"

"Molly, why do we never have sex?"

"I didn't know that was even on the table, Sherlock!"

"Well, it could be on the table, if you prefer. But I was thinking more along lines of the bed, Molly. After all, we share this bed quite frequently, and the subject has never come up."

"We share this bed quite frequently because you refuse to use the spare room, and I will not vacate my own bed merely for your convenience. You use my flat as a bolthole, and recently, as your own little mini-getaway vacation destination. I provide food, shelter, drink, and the occasional entertainment in the form of a rented video, or just plain crap telly. Now you want to know why I don't provide other, uh, 'services', as well? Besides, I thought you weren't interested in that sort of thing. With women. Or at all."

"I don't know where you get your information, Dr. Hooper. Have you been talking to Mrs. Hudson, by any chance? You should have spoken to John, rather, who would assure you that he and I were not, are not, and will never be, lovers! But that is not to say that I do not have certain inclinations toward the female of the species, and I thought I had been rather obvious in these inclinations in regard to you."

"What?! Sherlock! What the bloody hell are you talking about?"

"Molly, really, if any other man had spent evening after evening in your flat, sharing meals and crap telly, fondling your abominable cat, and finally climbed into bed with you at the end of that evening, what would you suppose his intention to be?" He had started off sounding almost a bit belligerent, but the question ended on a rather sad note, and got even sadder when he asked, "Do you still love me, Molly? I know you used to, so don't deny it. But do you love me now, still?"

She could see his face, bathed in the light streaming in through the bedroom window. He looked hopeful, and a bit frightened, at the same time. "Of course I love you, you prat. I've loved you for so long I can't remember what it feels like not to love you. But that's only half of the equation, and you know it."

"I'm not good at this. Let me explain, or try to," the man sounded positively confused. "When I do something which I know John would consider 'not good', or when even I, myself, can tell that I've hurt someone, or been selfish, or rude, or just plain mean, I think to myself that I can't really be as bad, as insufferable, as I know I am, because Molly Hooper loves me. And she couldn't possibly love me if I were truly as awful as all that. It's just something that keeps me going, allows me exist from day to day. The fact that you see something in me which I don't see. And if I lose that, I think I'll lose myself. It's important to me. I really don't care what people think. I just care what you think. And that is because you matter, Molly. I've said it before, although I don't think you ever believed me." Sherlock stopped for a moment as if to gather his thoughts, while Molly just looked at him in amazement. "You matter the most. You're important to me. I like you very much. I like spending time with you. You never bore me! I think you're beautiful! And when a man climbs into bed with a beautiful woman, he is definitely not thinking about getting a good night's sleep, even if he is a high-functioning sociopath with limited social skills!"

"Why haven't you ever said anything, you bastard!" The pathologist punched him on the upper arm, a blow not meant to cause actual damage, and strong enough to indicate her anger and impatience.

"I'm shy?" Sherlock said, trying to sound meek, but knowing that even on his best day he could never really pull of "meek."

"You were waiting for me to make the first move, weren't you? So you could rub it in, how I just couldn't resist you, right?"

"Perhaps, and I must give credit where credit is due, Molly. You lasted much longer than I ever thought you would. Brava! Now can we have sex?"

"NO! Not now, maybe not ever!"

"Molly, that's a ridiculous attitude. Why punish yourself when you're angry at me? That's not logical."

Molly had to agree that the detective was making sense. She never thought for a single minute that she would be lying in her bed resisting the advances of the love of her life. The man was impossible! She heaved a giant sigh, thinking to herself that when she woke up this morning this was certainly not a conversation she thought she'd be having this evening! And she had no idea what he truly wanted. A one-off night of fun and games? A relationship? More? There were things to consider.

"Why now, Sherlock? After all this time, why now?"

"I'm getting older, Molly. And, although I hate to mention it, so are you. I thought we should get on with the rest of our lives. If you want more than one child, we should perhaps start soon. I want to think about our retirement, moving to the country, raising bees. You could publish your research. And bake. I love your chocolate biscuits, you know that."

"Just a minute, Sherlock! You've just now told me, for this first time ever, that you're interested in me as more than a lab assistant, or a sounding board, or even a verbal punching bag, and now you've got us moving to the country and raising bees! You're going to have to make a pretty good argument, Mr. Holmes! What else can you say to persuade me?"

"You can keep your cat?"

"Thank you very much for that concession, you arsehole!" Sherlock winced as she hissed the epithet. "But I was thinking more along the lines of who gets custody of Mrs. Hudson if we split up?"

"Not a problem, as I will never leave you, and I intend to make you so happy you will never even consider leaving me. But, for arguments sake, I propose joint custody of Mrs. H, but you can have Mycroft."

"I think Anthea might have a problem there, Sherlock. And just how do you intend to make me happy, anyway?"

Sherlock propped himself up on his elbow and gave her a such a smoldering look that even the darkness of the room around him seemed to take on a heated glow. "Perhaps if you were to rescind you 'no sex' edict, I could demonstrate, Dr. Hooper."

Molly found herself moving closer and closer to the man in bed next to her, without even intending to do so. But just before their lips were close enough to touch, she whispered, "You'll have to clean the kitchen occasionally. And that includes the fridge!"

Sherlock sighed in resignation, saying, "Perhaps you could tie such chores to a reward system, Molly. I could think of some ways to really motivate me." He moved even closer, but was stopped by her next words.

"Sherlock, do you love me?"

He knew he wasn't good at his. Sentiment and emotion were definitely out of his area of expertise. He had tried to explain how he felt, that she was the most important person in the world to him. She mattered more than anyone. She fascinated him, and aroused him, and he wanted her. Tonight, tomorrow, and forever. He liked her immensely, for her kindness, her wit, and her mind. But he had not said the word, the word she evidently needed to hear. And then, because he had promised to make her happy, and would always give her whatever she needed, he spoke slowly, and calmly, so that the petite woman, so close to him that their breath mingled in the night air, could hear the truth of his words.

"Yes, Molly, I love you. More than my life, more than anything. I'm sorry that I have never said it before, and I'm sorry that I will probably not say it enough in the future. But, please, know that it's true. I love you."

And Molly closed what small gap remained between them, snogging him senseless, and definitely reconsidering her "no sex" edict. And as he rolled her onto her back and traced his lips along her jawbone and down to her neck, she knew she was taking a day's leave in the morning. She had better things to do than sleep!


End file.
